


an epilogue

by blue--phantom (twilightscribe)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort Sex, Desperation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 02:01:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18174365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightscribe/pseuds/blue--phantom
Summary: After everything, they're still alive.





	an epilogue

Understandably, the Warrior of Light makes themself scarce upon their return to Castrum Oriens.

Sanson had not noticed the tremble in his hands till that moment. Nor had he realized the chill that has settled under his skin; he feels cold and more than a little like his stomach has dropped out through his feet.

He is a soldier and death has been something that he has long since had to come to terms with, whether that be his own or that of his friends and fellows. But death on a battlefield is much different than as a captive. Either way it would be violent, but… it simply isn’t the same. Not when it could have easily been avoided if he had not let his guard down, had he put up more of a fight.

Even during his captivity, he had known it likely he would die. The Order would never negotiate or cede to the demands of a singular individual. Not when it had been through his own error that he had put himself into that situation to begin with; had he been prepared for a fight, had he _just_ – he should have done more. Something. _Anything_.

Long, slender hands wrap around his, fingers entwining and it’s as natural as breathing to him to let it happen. The knots in his stomach tighten, his throat constricts, and he simply stares at their hands, unable to say a word.

For once, it seems his speechlessness is mirrored in Guydelot. Had the situation been less dire, he might have laughed, because Guydelot always seems to have something to say, even when he should not.

The two of them stand like that for what seems like hours, their hands entwined between them and neither saying a word.

What Sanson wants to say, is that he understands, that he apologizes, and that the Warrior of Light explained how upset Guydelot had been to find him taken. But all the words seem to be stuck in his throat and his tongue is strangely glued to the top of his mouth. He opens his mouth, intending to try and force the words out, but he’s stopped when Guydelot finally speaks.

“... I feared you dead,” Guydelot says, voice oddly rough and catching on the words.

_I’m sorry_. The words sound hollow, dead, and empty on his tongue. Rather than say those words, he stays silent. But… he leans in wordlessly, forehead bumping against Guydelot’s chest and lets out a breath in a deep exhale.

Guydelot is warm, even through the layers of clothing, and the smell of him is familiar. When he drops Sanson’s hands to wrap his arms around him, it feels exactly like coming home. Nothing has ever felt more right than this.

Still saying nothing, his mouth dry and tasting vaguely of bitterness and ash, Sanson wraps his arms around Guydelot’s waist and holds on tight.

_I thought I might have lost you_.

The words echo loud, but unsaid, inside of his head and in the silence between the two of them.

Sanson swallows, feeling very tired and _very_ cold.

“... take me to bed?” he asks quietly. His voice sounds rough, muffled as it is against Guydelot’s chest.

There’s an almost hysterical chuckle in Guydelot’s throat. His hold on Sanson tightens briefly, then loosens, and he pulls back enough to look at him. When he reaches to cup Sanson’s face in his hands, they’re trembling – but the kiss Guydelot presses to his lips is firm.

“Of course.”

He makes it two steps before his legs finally give out under him. They feel strangely numb, as though they have fallen asleep, and weak. When he opens his mouth to apologize, to say that he does not know what has come over him, he instead lets out a rather undignified squawk when Guydelot sweeps his legs out from under him.

It’s not the first time he’s found himself cradled in Guydelot’s arms, and it certainly will not be the last.

If it had been any other situation, and Sanson had not felt as tired as he does, he might have protested. But he does not. Instead, he drops his head to Guydelot’s shoulder, burying it into the crook of his neck and… lets himself relax. It doesn’t take long for his eyes to droop closed and sleep to claim him.

 

 

 

Sanson is not aware of the passage of time, nor, fully, where he is when he’s startled awake.

The broken sound that Guydelot makes grounds him instantly.

Tangled in the sheets and Guydelot’s limbs, Sanson struggles a little to roll over. He presses a hand to Guydelot’s bare chest, pushing him gently, and says sharply, “Guydelot!”

Night terrors are not something that Sanson has much experience dealing with. True, there have been occasional rough nights – even a nightmare every now and again – but nothing like this. Guydelot has always been, not untouchable no, so… well-adjusted, it felt like. Guilt stabs him, hot and sharp, because Sanson has given little thought to any suffering Guydelot has felt.

Guydelot blinks, eyes wide, terror clear and he stares down at Sanson. His eyes flicker over Sanson’s face, before he crushes him in a tight embrace.

Stroking Guydelot’s side, Sanson murmurs, “Are you… are you alright?”

“T’was a nightmare,” Guydelot admits, voice muffled by Sanson’s hair. “I… you were…”

“I’m here. I’m here _now_.”

Though awkward, he manages to untangle himself just enough to take Guydelot’s face in his hands. He leans in and up, pressing featherlight kisses to his lips, the corners of them, his cheeks. “I’m here,” he says, over and over. “I’m right here.”

Guydelot’s hands glide over his sides, his back, every ilm of flesh that he can reach, as to reassure himself that Sanson is _there_ and _alive_. He tugs him closer, pressing bare flesh to bare flesh, and all Sanson can do is curl closer and keep murmuring softly to him.

Thought it takes time, eventually Sanson falls silent, the two of them awake, but still once more. The only movement the rise and fall of their chests as they breathe.

The next kiss is soft, insistent, and Guydelot’s mouth is warm and soft against his. He tips his head, to better the angle, and there’s a small edge of desperate heat there – one that Sanson knows well.

He chuckles softly, unable to help himself, and wiggles a little bit closer, “What do you need?”

“ _You_.”

It’s certainly not the first time that they have been intimate – _certainly_ will not be the last – but that little desperate edge remains; as though Guydelot is trying to reassure _himself_ that Sanson is really there, that he’s _his_ , and that he’s not going anywhere.

His hands are large, warm and callused, as they trail down Sanson sides. He hitches one of Sanson’s legs up and over his thigh, sliding into the cradle of Sanson’s hips. Then, he rolls them over till he’s on his back and Sanson is on top, straddling his lap.

Sanson shivers, the chill of a Gyr Abanian night seeping in and unused as he is to the thought of being in control.

His hands fan out, rough and callused and not at all _elegant_ on Guydelot’s bare chest. He tries to pull back enough to ask, to speak, but each time he tries he finds himself pulled back into another lingering, deep kiss that has his toes curling and back arching.

Guydelot hums, almost thoughtfully, a hand settling on the small of Sanson’s back, his own long, elegant fingers stroking along the top of his rear. His other hand rests on Sanson’s right thigh, a gentle yet insistent weight.

Rocking his hips, Sanson’s feels a soft rush of pleasure when Guydelot hisses, his little song interrupted. He can already feel the other’s prick, hard and making itself very intimately acquainted with the cleft of his rear – not that it wasn’t _already_ very well acquainted with that part of his anatomy.

His cheeks warm, flushing pink as they always do. His own prick is hard, caught between the two of them and there is precum beading at its head.

“Do you…” He clears his throat, always feeling awkward, “... do you want me to…?”

“Please,” Guydelot murmurs, catching Sanson’s lip with his teeth and tugging. “Check my coat; I should have _something_ in one of the pockets.”

If it were anyone other than Guydelot, he might be offended. But he’s long moved whether or not it’s _appropriate_ for Guydelot to carry oil around with him specifically for this purpose; it’s certainly benefited the both of them many times. And, right then, he’s grateful for his preparedness.

What _is_ distracting is the way that Guydelot is touching him, which makes his groping, desperate search all the more difficult. He nearly fumbles the vial when he _does_ find it, because Guydelot’s hands are massaging his arse _just_ the way he likes it.

Of course, it’s easy enough for him to return the favour. He grinds back against Guydelot’s prick and grins when those distracting hands grasp him tightly, guiding him into a rough, insistent rhythm.

Yet, it’s not enough.

Voicing his own desire has always been difficult for Sanson. He can recognize his own wants and needs, certainly, but giving them voice has always proven difficult; Guydelot finds it adorable, always enjoying wringing the words out of him.

“Should I…?” He holds the vial between them, hips still rocking against Guydelot’s.

Guydelot closes his hand around Sanson’s, nodding, and guiding his hand down, “I… I’m afraid I may hurt you in my eagerness.”

“You know I don’t mind it rough,” Sanson replies, but he cracks the vial open and coats his fingers in the oil. He works it between his fingers, warming it, as he knows from experience that it will otherwise be cold and it’s not a sensation that he’s fond of. “Do you… do you want to watch…?”

“... maybe another time. Be quick.” 

He shivers, because the thought of _Guydelot_ watching _him_ pleasure himself is a heady thought, but nods and shifts forward. Sanson slides his hand between their bodies, pressing slicked fingers up against his own entrance.

They’ve done this countless times before, thus the stretch and slight sting is something that Sanson has grown used to. He has _also_ become quite adept at knowing his own limits and just how much preparation he can make do with. And at the moment, they’re both quite desperate; the bare minimum will do.

And Sanson enjoys the burn. Maybe a little too much.

He bites down on his lip, muffling a noise in his throat as he works himself open as quickly as possible. Once he’s satisfied, he pulls his fingers free, wrapping his oil-slick hand around Guydelot’s prick and stroking it from base to tip.

Guydelot makes a choked noise, hips twitching up. He reaches up, tangling his fingers in Sanson’s hair and pulling him down into a deep kiss. His tongue is a wicked, wicked thing and Sanson groans into the kiss. It’s quite distracting when he’s trying to multitask and get Guydelot inside of him as quickly as possible.

“Are you-” Guydelot’s question tapers off into a hiss as his prick slides into Sanson.

“M’fine.”

It’s not a lie. They’ve been rougher than this and he’s taken Guydelot before with less preparation. If he just… relaxes and takes him in quick, then - and Guydelot is helping him, his hands a steadying presence on his hips and he’s tilting his own _just so_ and -

There’s a high noise lodged in Sanson’s throat. Too much, yes, and his nerves are shot but they _need_ this; this closeness, this connection.

He’s too tight and Guydelot is just… well, he’s always been too much for Sanson.

It only takes a few rocks of Sanson’s hips for both of them to tumble over the edge. Guydelot letting out a stream of curses and Sanson muffling his scream of pleasure in Guydelot’s shoulder.

The two of them stay like that, connected and intertwined for a very long time.

“... promise me you will take more care in the future.”

“I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Words:** 2030 words
> 
> Hello tiny ship, I am here and I bring content.


End file.
